


Miscommunications

by savaged



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Distant relationship, FC Barcelona, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex, Real Madrid CF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savaged/pseuds/savaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never easy to hold a long distance relationship when the emotional void breaks them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miscommunications

**Author's Note:**

> I strongly recommend you read this first:  
> http://www.foxsports.com/soccer/story/ronaldo-jokes-his-real-opinion-about-messi-might-put-him-in-jail-083014

 

 

He wasn't even surprised. It's not like a football player of his range wasn't used to waking up to different people on his bed some mornings. But this one was dressed, to break the norm.

He felt dizzy after rough amounts of alcohol, a cloudy state of mind, mingled tastes of a mouth lacking face and he couldn't walk out of his own house; leave the stranger inside. No, not when that stranger was world widely known. He wasn't gonna give him that sweet chance.

 

-

Not sure of what to say or where to look at the next match they played as rivals, Leo pushed his head back visibly uncomfortable to talk to his coach; Cristiano advanced bitting his bottom lip with a mourn. That was it, their jobs. Leo's centered. He swore he'd get over it, but he had to check himself before going out the locker room, and he checked his hair, too. He checked his eyes, his hands, his legs. However, he couldn't check inside the person standing in that mirror. He was too scared of what he might find.

They're both grown up people. They're professionals, and pretty much they go apart from each other being oblivious to it, like, the way the Earth gets far from the Sun and nobody ever seems to notice.

They had sworn. To themselves. But then there's Leo there, lying on the sand of a chill coast, with the alternative black t-shirt of the Real Madrid on -which contrasts against his pale skin, and covers most of the bites that go towards his neck,- and his favorite player's name on it, and then back at the memories of the pitch where he's rocking the colors of the Argentine bohemian flag, with all the proudness he's supposed to have been born with, with the colors of the free sky on it, with the heavy weight of millions of citizens that have him in their hearts. Pretty common for being just a simple footballer, right?

Cris carefully glanced past him from meters away, and the shadows on the ground changed shapes to fit the clouds running below the moon. Leo's blue and cold red jersey slightly moved, surrounded by soft wind at the Bernabeu's. Neymar patted his back when going past him and he saw Casillas smirk at his teammates for the first time of the match when the final whistle blew. Leo kept quiet to himself and cheered Barça with respectful nods and started to walk back to the lockers. He hadn't thought of greeting anyone of the _merengues_ until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder that obliged him to turn around.

"Leo," he sighed. "Nice match, man."

"Thanks, James."

He hummed nodding along the young colombian. "How's all? Have you gotten in touch with Argentina's national team? I'm dying to play a friendly with you." His cheeks went from the pink shade of I-just-finished-playing-a-football-match to talking-to-this-one-guy red shade, and Leo even wondered if all that James really wanted was a picture or an autograph of him. "This match was hard, I didn't believe we would make it."

"Me neither." He smiled sympathetically patting James' hand still on his shoulder.

"There are so many different things comparing here to other places with teams like ours, like you can compare-"

"James?" a velvet voice called from behind his back. The boy's breathing barely hitched, Leo noticed, and James turned around retiring his hand from Leo's shoulder. "I was looking for you, the camera man wants an interview. Go." The colombian put a 'sorry' expression and shrugged towards Messi, leaving them to walk alone towards the journalists and row of cameras at the end of the pitch. Cristiano's level of possessiveness never ceased to overwhelm Leo. The man was standing with folded arms, glaring down on him. "You aren't going to talk to me?"

Eyes withdrew the piercing stare from Cristiano's dark ones to rest on the shape of his now pressed lips.

"I don't feel like it, sorry." Lionel shifted weight from one leg to the other and held his hand out. "Handshake?"

Cristiano stood still. His clenched fists rested under the shape of his toned arms, teeth biting his tongue hard. "Don't feel like it."

Leo scoffed sensing a rush of blood to his head and snapped a bold 'fuck you' at him, jerked his head and shook it before thousands of fans abandoning scene and the grades. Their teammates, some surrounded by journalists and others leaving the pitch, turned their heads at them when they went separate ways, not muttering another word. It was gonna be on the tabloids soon or later. But it wasn't gonna be discussed in the locker rooms.

-

"Is this what bad sex does to you?"

Neymar fondled the buttons of his controller lazily as Brazil scored again. Lionel glared at him looking up from the corner of his breakfast table, in the cozy, children themed kitchen -random drawings sticking to the fridge's door like lollipop sticks to kids' hairs-, and the newspaper aside of him, already closed. A finger upon his lips, mind lost in the way the man read him.

"I mean, you get all grumpy and tired with life. Do you usually do it? You should-"

"Don't start."

He was right, however. He was _so_ tired of media and the fuck up that he was in social relationships. Even after the World Cup he hadn't been able to thank Cristiano for the support he had given him, a couple of phone messages with kind words he considered rather written by somebody else than him for the caring attitude.

"It's none of your business."

Neymar's controller slipped from his hands and he lifted his head up, shifting a bit to look at Leo with green eyes, making the leather of the couch make crack sounds. "I'm your friend so... I think that makes it part of my business, pretty much."

"I wouldn't like to talk about it, Neymar."

"Alright" he stood up, walking up to Leo and placing his arms on top of the table, resting his elbows, letting them thump so he could get the footballer's attention. He hovered above Leo's face two inches away from him and squinted his eyes. "What is it? Someone? Someone you're hiding? I bet it is, you can't pretend to be humble all the goddamn time, Leo. There has to be something totally wrong with you. Morally wrong."

"Get off, I'm fine" Leo smiled to himself and pulled his buzzing cellphone from his pocket. "Go play video games or something."

"Oh, I'm getting there" Neymar smirked jokingly. "A guy or a girl? Nah, you're mourning _him_. If it was a girl you'd be pissed off."

"What would you know?"

"Experience" Neymar smacked the device away from Leo's hands and stole his cellphone, taking a glance of the screen before Messi lost his head and tackled Neymar to the floor, watching the electronic rectangle reach the tiled ground with a loud 'crack'. They both swallowed. Lionel sighed prolonging the last huff.

"Happy now?"

Neymar stared at him wide-eyed. More actually surprised and amazed than in a guilt trip, and he bit his lip thoughtfully before opening his mouth for the flash of screen he had seen. Leo shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, "no. No, c'mon."

"Oh god. _Oh my god_ ," knowledge and surprise spoke loud through his eyes, a tingle bothering his stomach and a twist of the perception he had about Lionel's life. "Leo, this is _insane_ , I-"

 

-

His hands covered the small waist of one of the best football players in the World, the hot and damp in sweat curve, the strong thighs tight and hard slapping against his skin when James ground down. Any shortened yelps, little gasps, a gesture of his face to mimic what he felt when Cris went too fast or too slow or too great for James' tastes, showed through his face. Inside him, it felt like the whole world could be on fire and he couldn't care less -or at least that was the feeling he wanted to believe it assimilated. Surrounding him, in his arms, sharing heat with each other, because Spain could go cold in winter and there weren't many other people he felt so warm with during awful storms.

Well, there was Leo; Leo short and simply perfect, and his stupid humility and dumb, but sharp comments, and James reminded Cris of the argentine in ways that he'd have to close his eyes to hear those harmonious moans and gasps and spanish words slipping from an agitated mouth. Although, the other man was problematic to the point where Cristiano had given him the power of making him smile with a smile, feel bad with a frown, where he'd trust whatever the man would say no matter the non sense. 'Cause it wasn't like he talked a lot, anyway.

That's why he liked to listen to Lionel's words. Even better, that's why he'd like to listen to him pant. And right now all he could get was James, and he was going all in for it. Because the broken heart in his chest still pumped furiously, and Cristiano hadn't ever been known for reacting well to conflicted issues. And this? This part is where he was the best. The angry, hurting thrusts that lacked so much passion, because this man right now wasn't his passion _at all_.

 

-

It hit him like a brick in the head. The message appeared to be read and Leo was actually avoiding him, and it had felt like that for a long time already. This wasn't about the loss of the World Cup, this was just about them losing whatever they _had_ , and it hurt. It hurt more than anything that happened that year, any physical injury and lost match, to be honest and sadistic with himself going all over the feeling, and embracing deep shades of cool destroying his layers of confidence.

"Do you need anything else?"

James was looking at him from the side of the stack of white pillows he didn't use. He had a smirk on him and come-to-bed eyes if they hadn't been there already-, and Irina would be so pissed to know they had torn the expensive sheets.

"No, it's okay."

He gazed at him. And he gazed at him because he was beautiful, but he didn't mean a single thing. "You're free to leave now. The bathroom has towels" and, lazily tugging blankets and unwrapping himself, he walked past the shower to uninterestedly glance past a naked, shaking James under the hot jets of water before he threw his phone against the TV's board, causing a loud and irksome rattle and crack that filled the whole silent house.

 

-

Once they were alone after the chat with the press, he shook his head in exasperation, a player like him over thinking a dull divergent friendship in exchange of nothing; that's what Lionel gave him.

"I already told you I'm not talking, I can't face him, Fabio. You do it."

"What's so scary about this, tell me?"

"I _can't_. That's it. He doesn't like me, I don't like him either" Cristiano swept over the tiny cracks of his iPhone's screen -who's he lying to?-, sliding the bar at the bottom to unlock. The background's a photo of him in a Dior campaign before he even released his own underwear store, a photo Messi had laughed about as they were sweeping through his camera roll, a photo he had looked at for some minutes with that longing sense of nostalgia before he noticed the way Leo bit at his bottom lip. Coming back to the present moment, "anything I say will send me straight to jail."

"It's just a fucking award, Cris."

"It's not the ballon d'Or, it's him."

Fabio scoffed. "Fuck, go ahead and tweet about it. Whatever you say will send you to jail."

And that's exactly what he did.

 

-

There was a call at 2am, while darkness crawled through the walls outside, right before he reached his sleep. He thought that it might be James. He wanted to apologize to him, make up for whatever he had done, tell him they could be friends as long as he wanted. He didn't want what happened to interfere with his professional career and _what was he thinking dragging a teammate into his sheets?_ God, Ronaldo, no, it's not time to lower your head. Go ahead, and _answer that call_.

"Hello" thick portuguese accent responded instead of the spanish-ed one.

Silence.

His clenched jaw, teeth showing through open lips, glistening eyes.

"Who is this?"

"Hey."

He put a hand on his temple and sat up immediately.

"Listen, if you don't tell me who you are I'll have your number blocked, alright?"

"Like you don't know who I am."

"Do you want me to apologize? Because I'm losing hours of sleep."

"Losing hours of sleep?" A scorn laugh, faint through the phone line. "What about mine? Always thinking about the rest of us, huh."

"Oh, _humble Leo_ , I must apologize! Go _fuck_ yourself."

"Aye" it sounded like a 'what' and a 'wait' mixed with the argentine expression of 'hey', and Cristiano's head went over it until the other spoke rushingly. He missed the high peaks and spanish slur affecting the way he spoke. He shook his head and swallowed. "I'm sorry to interrupt your fucking dreams but there's something else than _you_  that I wanted to talk about."

"Who? You?"

"Us."

The portuguese mouth formed a muted ' _what?_ ' over the speaker and slouched, grimacing, putting his elbows upon his knees and running a thumb through his bottom lip. "Why?" _Did you just say us or is your speech that fucked up?_

"Because I- I miss us."

"I don't."

"The only thing stopping me from telling you to go fuck yourself is that I wouldn't get the chance to do that myself. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like you don't even know what you want."

"Well, I clearly don't want you to go to _jail_ , do I?"

Cristiano gasped. So this was about _that_ stupid tweet. He shifted on his bed and relaxed his back, focusing on an answer, but the other was faster.

"Besides, I owe you an apology."

But it was gonna be vile, and cheap. And there's a lot of things you can say when you're not looking at someone. Specially while talking to your -as the press named him- rival.

"Should I hang up?"

Cristiano clutched at the phone. "No. What can I do?"

"What can _I_ do. There you go again, thinking of everybody else before yourself. Such a selfless person, Cristiano, really."

"You wouldn't like it any other way."

Leo chuckled bitterly, and on his side of the line he hanged a toothbrush with mint paste from his mouth, almost too caught up in Cristiano's portuguese-spiced words. His half-lidded eyes, more tired than actually lustfull, closed when the portuguese's laugh reached the speaker. The sink felt cold, even rough against his crotch when the cloth of his sweat pants rubbed it after he spit white mint. Cristiano couldn't hear the warm tap water run, or the way Leo's tongue ran across his clean upper teeth; couldn't see his shinning grin or feel the tightness in his pants more than his _own_.

"I'm sorry about the last match."

"No, it was my fault" Leo shook his head even though no one was present to see it, and strolled through his house turning off lights leaving the last one of his room on. It felt empty. It felt lonely. It felt like himself. So he held onto the voice on the line like a lifeguard -the ones that never appeared in his recent copious nightmares about floods,- and waited for Cristiano to speak, to ask, to laugh, to apologize. Whatever that would get him down from that high pedestal of _god_ that Lionel and the press had put him on. Whatever made him more human than his words, like;

"I know it was your fault, and you should feel bad about that."

"Really, Cristiano?"

"No, not really." The millionaire shrugged. A long pause. "Are we still a thing?"

"Yes. I'm afraid so."

"What- Why?"

"Because I've been half hard since your stupid tweet."

Cristiano's throat went dry as he licked his lips.

"And really, I need some release, Cris. Not just metaphorically."

"Oh, no, yeah."

"I think you don't get it, really."

"No, no- I swear, I- Are you alone? Where are you?"

"Since when does that matter to you?"

"Leo, I wanted to make sure that-" Cristiano basked in the situation of Leo being hard for him miles away from himself and stiffened more than he was, feeling absolutely wasted while blushing like a schoolgirl. He genuinely checked back and forth his house in case he had forgotten about a guest at 2am and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Leo," he wished he heard the sound of the clothing stirring and becoming a ball of pajama pants and shirt thrown above the floor, "what did you call me for?" He lowered his voice, "why are you such a little faggot when it comes to me, huh?"

"You know what, I've noticed you love to use homophobic slang while wanking to a guy like you."

"Shut up" Cristiano bit his bottom lip wrapping a hand around his engorged hard-on. "It's just... It's you."

"I don't care. Fucking respect me" a sound like bed springs came through the line, "it's not like you don't love my trembling hands on your thighs when I'm trying to strategically jump on your dick..."

Cristiano gasped and furrowed his brow, "shut up!"

"... or you moan my name while I suck you whole, sometimes gagging just to hear you whine, hun."

"Shut the fuck up! Someone'll hear that shit, and it's not even true."

"So if it was true you'd like them to hear it? No surprise I haven't still fucked you. Unreliable as you are."

Cristiano closed his eyes and fell back on his mattress, hand still inside his own-brand underwear. "Tell me something I don't know."

"You're hot."

"Go on."

Lionel smiled fondly. "I like how your eyelashes look on your cheekbones, and that huffing thing you do on the pitch. And that messy hair with the sweaty blush, I bet you look the same after sex."

Cristiano sighed and smirked, giving himself a long stroke and huffed on the line. "Is that how you imagine me after fucking? You have some high expectations there."

"You don't get to see yourself through Cristiano Ronaldo's eyes, Cris. Even _you_ are not as good as you'd like in your own eyes. I should be the unconfident one here."

"You're just perfect."

"Really?"

" _Too_ perfect."

"Ah, there it is. Classic Cris," Leo uncapped a bottle of lube from his night table and threw himself back on the bed, raising his legs to get off his pants. "What would you do to me if you were here? Give me fashion tips? Penalty tips? Point out my flaws?"

"I'd fuck you raw."

Leo giggled. "Rude."

"No, I'd really get you going. Like, smooth you with my fingers because you're incredibly tight and- Just generally have your face buried in my neck while you beg for it and smell my cologne. Give you blue balls."

" _Ruuuude_ ," Leo pours some cold soothing lube on his entrance and closes his lip while slipping in one finger, then opens his mouth again in a silent sigh. "Tell me more."

"Are you doing it?"

"You _are_ doing it."

"Okay, that's fair." Cristiano rubbed himself twice before holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder, so he could get a grab of his nuts using his other hand. "I'd hold your waist against the wall, make you stand quiet and straight for me. You'd be complaining for sure, but I'd shut you up with a kiss."

"Hmm? You sure?"

"No. I'd put a hand above your mouth, you wouldn't say my name thay way."

" _Cristiano_..." Leo slid his third finger inside and gulped a moan that tried to escape his throat; "make me come. _Please_."

"You have no idea how needy you sound whining like that."

Leo pulled his fingers slowly in and out in constant rhythm between the silence Cristiano created. Then he heard a hiss, and knew Cris was getting too caught up in picturing him, the sweat drops forming around his thighs, his flushed face, his wrinkled brow and parted pink mouth.

"I'd run my cock against your ass" his voice, now wearier, announced. "I'd turn your back against me, your cheek on the wall while you have no idea why the hell you want this. But you do. And I'd do it to you with no complains, rub myself up and down on you," he heard Leo moan once he said it, "God, you'd scratch those walls with your nails so hard and I'd open you so slow you'd tremble, counting every single inch."

"You're not that big" Leo huffed. He started to trace circles in the inside of his thigh with his wet thumb, being knuckle deep inside himself. He released a huge amount of air caught in his lungs when he pulled out and pressed again in his hard spot.

"Wanna find out?"

"Maybe," Lionel licked his lips and smiled. He couldn't mute himself and groaned loudly, swallowing afterwards, utterly embarrassed. "It would feel fucking awful to have such a big thing inside you." Lionel shrugged. "Nice if it's you."

"Thanks" Cristiano muttered too focused to lose his arousal while grabbing a piece of sheet and wriggling his legs. "I'd stroke and talk you through it all. I think you're the kind of quiet, shy guy in bed."

"Or against the wall."

"Yeah, against the wall."

"Can you say my name?"

Cristiano was too close to even smile. He thought of Lionel shaking and waiting for Cristiano's attention, even the slightest touch would have sent him rushing to the moon and back. And he _knew_ how many times Lionel had skipped sending a message and calling instead presumably just to hear his raspy voice. " _Leo_ " he toned his voice amber and warm into the line, and licked his lips, " _Lionel Messi_ , you make a wreck of me."

"Fuck" Lionel hissed and spasmed, losing the clutch of the phone between his jaw and his shoulder, as the tissue around his fingers felt tight and pulsing and he came all over his sheets.

"Leo?"

The short guy writhed, reaching for his phone with his face but blatantly failing. He smacked down his cheek on it and accidentally pressed the red button of the recently repaired touch screen, leaving Cristiano with his mouth hanging open, the ghost of his name on his lips and an incredibly raging hard on –and _rage_.

 

"Fucking tease- Fuck," Cris went on even though nobody could hear him. On the other side of the line, Leo's eyelids fell close and heavy, quickly dozing off while his fingers slid out wet and his body became numb.

Cristiano swore he'd get his name on a black list as soon as he possibly could.


End file.
